


The Butterfly and the Assassin

by Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness



Series: Notebook of Originals [4]
Category: Blood Strokes and Blind Eyes (Original), Original Work
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Love Affair, Love Story, M/M, Original Fiction, Original Short, Original work - Freeform, Short Story, The Butterfly and the Assassin, original short story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 03:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness/pseuds/Yuri_the_Eighth_Demoness
Summary: The Archeas triplets had found themselves in the city of Nun, but far apart and never together, two brothers and one sister. T h i s is a recollection of the love story of the only female in the family, when the butterfly had met the assassin that once threatened her life.





	The Butterfly and the Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally entitled "Psalterine".

His target was in that room, through the farthest door at the very end of the corridor, and his heart was racing as he approached it with caution, which was very unusual for a member of the Oldest Assassin Society in the world. The heir of the mythical family itself…was nervous.

Yill’s eyes narrowed.

Why has this happened?

Outside it was raining. The continental storm had again hit town and may last overnight. The winds howled, the trees swayed and bent as, in the wake of fearless lightning, everything was distorted. Shadows here and there as this natural chaos settled onto its current location.

Much like how he felt inside. The utter turmoil not to mention torment. Confusion as he’s never felt before.

For _other_ people he could kill very easily. But _this one_ he can’t. He definitely can’t. Five attempts had failed thus far. A sixth now, yes? But it was a destined failure as well. He just couldn’t kill _her_ …

* * *

 

That Rogue Society of drug lords had sought the Family Gothvried’s assistance in a matter that most troubled its heads. A rather brilliant member of theirs had unwittingly cheated them and ran away with the cash. Loads of it from several transactions which happened some months ago. It was a clean steal, very much. But what was to be expected, said them. She was a powerful _Wielder_.

She had the power to whisper to ghosts and make them her slaves. She traps them in bottles then releases them to do her bidding. They called her the Soul Wraith, with whom they had matched even their very best men, which she just easily eluded, slipping out of anyone’s grasp as if she were quicksilver.

She was young. Some eleven years with the charms of an sixteen-year-old. She deceives easy, stirs disaster and gets away with it clean. And as was told, she was a skilled worker and a good asset. Until she betrayed them which they said she had always planned to do apparently.

Then they were so confident the Family could do the job for them, get rid of this _female_. Yill took on the assignment, always ready and available for another _challenging_ conquest. But it wasn’t quite how he expected. The outcome he had _terribly_ miscalculated…

The inside of the house was some isolated void. Outside, the storm beat on the mansion’s façade like a mad witch banging on doors. Within the building though there was no sound. Just the obvious presence of rain and lightning seen through the long row of floor-length windows.

The glass wept.

Shadows like specters appeared and disappeared on the carpeted floor with every flicker from the outside.

Yill just stood there. His mind drifted to remember the first time he’d faced _her_. A night very much like this one when he had tracked her to some old, abandoned suburban home that evening and thought to have had her cornered. That was the first time he had learnt her name, and now he whispered it like the prayer that it was…

“ _Psalterine_ …”

**#**

The balcony was wide open. The rain was pouring in as leaves showered the half-drenched carpet. Lightning fell in a race; shadows danced and every time the streaks descended, the room was in a grotesque glow. Furniture scattered about. She had nestled among the cushions of a chair, asleep perhaps.

Yill unsheathed the _Obfuscare_ and slashed!

Lightning flashed.

The chair diagonally split in two with the upper half toppling over into one heavy block of old velvet. The assassin frowned. She was gone. His hand tightened its grip around the ancient sword’s handle.

“Come out _Soul Wraith_.”

Laughter somewhere and he turned to find the girl leaned against a tall mirror in a corner. Another streak of lightning. Thunder drumming.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she touched a couple of fingers on her lower lip, tracing the smooth surface of skin there, smiling mischievously. “You’re not being a gentleman.”

Yill saw she wore a thin silk dress underneath her fur jacket, flip-flops, a Greek Sailor’s Cap of red. A wardrobe oddly put together yet strangely cute. She was flawless all over, showing plenty of skin that didn’t even feel cold in this weather. She hid an eye under her cap, but the one that stared at him was a rose in shade. There was no shade like unto it in the world…at least not where Yill had seen it.

The Soul Wraith combed a feline’s hand through the tips of her sable hair. Very silky like the rest of her features. She had the curves of a woman, although still very much a young girl. Apparently, she was one of those precocious types, admiring Yill as much as he was, in denial to himself, silently admiring her.

Tall, built with just the right amount of hard muscles and not too bulky, and all that flesh, leather-clad from the neck to the waist and lower, melding with a tale of a long coat and strapped boots.

Why do assassins dress like this?

This particular _‘killer’_ of hers was better suited than most she’s encountered before. More gorgeous, quite the handsome features and particularly deadly in presence. He had that fire in his eyes, a glint of something which might as well serve to seduce you then kill you.

She let out a sigh. “And they’d sent me the _ugly_ ones before,” she grinned, mind thinking simply that the man before her was just plain _yummy_.

 _‘Now if you weren’t trying to kill me’_ she rolled her eyes with a smirk.

Yill turned a full face to her. She was reclined against the frame of a heavy mirror. He could see his reflection, every now and then darkened by the fall of lightning.

“You want me assassin?” she dared. “I’m _all yours_.”

Yill raised the sword and turned it. The blade covered part of his face, showing nothing but the eyes which focused on the target. She could see herself on the blade, its very sharp edge glinting with a devil’s lustre. How many had this weapon killed, she wondered.

Another streak, followed by the drum of thunder. Time stopped for a second…

“Hold still,” said the assassin.

The Wraith teased with a lover’s voice, “Ask nicely.”  

Outside, the weather was at its worst, beating on everything with a song of madness, rendering everything in disarray. Lightning had fallen a little too close by, splintering an old Oak and a Willow, scattering natural sparks, bursting like so many fireflies…

Inside, the mirror had shattered to a shower of bits and pieces, Yill first to attack, slashing. But the Soul Wraith simply avoided it…

**#**

Reality.

The assassin had raised a hand to the knob of that door and turned it, uncertain perhaps for the first time about anything. He had thought much about what was going on and still couldn’t make a decision. Whether or not he should kill her or not.

With hesitations, into the room he went—both a short and long journey—and he was met by nothing but darkness inside.

This is not the room of a _Princess_. It’s the room of a vile _Queen_. Red curtains and lace. A four-poster. The drama of madness. And there she lay in the midst of it, sleeping.

Cautiously, he approached. The drawn _Obfuscare_ served to carefully part the fabrics that hung between them. He stood in a clearing made by so much folded silk, and all that remained was the thinner scarlet of the very bed itself. He could see her turned back, the hugging sheet of a blanket and the long, loose raven hair.

He dared to raise his sword again, swearing this time…this time he will…he will…

**#**

She fanned her blades and flung them at the assassin, missing him by a hair’s breadth and sending him back. But Yill was quick to recover, sliding to a halt, parrying another rain of _Ghost Blades_ , weaving through their thin zinging sharpness and going at her again.

He spun the sword over his head and slashed, missed, catching nothing but a strand of her hair as she flipped back. Agile kitten in excellent control of her body. Then she vanished. Belatedly did he realize she had opened a portal and disappeared into it, appearing to clasp the chains of a chandelier hanging somewhere above.

She swung the massive ornament and severed the main vein of it below were her hand was —sent it crashing towards the man. A violent shower of glass and dust as Yill thrust straight into the mass, “Burst!”, using the ancient blade’s natural ability to make things explode to stop it from hitting him.

But then he realized it was merely a distraction. What followed was a blur. As the weather settled for a brief respite outside, acknowledging the winning side of the argument between the killer and his target, Yill found himself in an uncanny predicament. He was caught in the criss-crossing web of chains, his sword stuck forward, his body immobilized as she held him in a web of her weapons.

So there was more to these Ghost Blades than what was _visible_. Literally. Attached to each was a thread of silver, made invisible by her power. She had not been flinging them recklessly as he’d thought after all but was setting a trap. And now she stood on the very flat of his _Obfuscare_ , one of her particularly long blades close to his neck.

“Guess I won neh?”

Yill fought a surge of subtle embarrassment and a sudden admiration. In fact, he’s always fought all manner of emotion as they served nothing but distractions to him and his profession. He frowned. At this point, it was impossible to move. Let alone use the sword. Its weakness was obvious (later if Psalterine would notice) that once the blade was touched its powers revert.

His eyes narrowed, “Do as you like then.”

She gave him a mischievous smile and glided forward, supported by a graceful hand, marveling at how he could easily support her weight that way. Lightning flickered outside.

She leaned in for a kiss, a sweet little connection that tasted like peppermint, and it stunned Yill. Beneath the rim of her cap glinted her pretty eyes, even in this darkness they looked surreal: the _ocean_ in one and a _flower_ in the other, looking at him, amused.

**#**

It was a battle he couldn’t win. Not even with this much effort could he complete the _mission._  Agitated, mostly frustrated at himself for allowing something like _that_ to creep into his system, overruling everything else that was supposedly his second nature, he struggled. The truth was he had… _fallen_ …and he was loathe to admit it. He simply can’t!

Yill turned a quick heel, the _Obfuscare_ lowering. Tiny signs of the storm outside, inside of him likewise as he fought his feelings. It didn’t matter here. He seemed isolated and away. Then he noticed.

Psalterine’s body began to glow with some bloody light. Yill caught the final glimpse as she shrunk to a little orb, spurting wings and transforming into a butterfly. The insect fluttered out through tiny cracks in the curtains, past the assassin, leaving in its wake a trail of dust. Its dust. The butterfly begun to disintegrate, fading piece by tiny piece in a glorious expression of _death_.

It was an illusion. Yill felt her presence next someplace else and she was very much awake. She had been waiting for him to find her, a manner of sorrow playing in her aura as, from one of the pillars in a corner, she watched his reactions. She bit her lip. She was a statue where she leaned on her hands, silent.

“You’re unhappy. I can tell,” but came the gentle voice; or was that a statement more to herself than it was to Yill?

He sighed but did not move to look at her. She shifted slowly, coming out from hiding, a hand not leaving from where it was on the marble and looking at him. A concern was there, and a confusion that seemed to mirror Yill’s. She wore it like the simple dress she had on for the night. She couldn’t put on anything else that mocked him, or at least had the intention of. She was bare and being honest.

Lightning.

His sword fell straight into the floor, upright, glinting with menace as its master neglected it. In an instant, Yill took hold of Psalterine by the throat and was trying to…trying to…trying to what? He gave up. Looking into those mismatched eyes, he gave up.

“I was resolved. I even lit a taper for you in _Kandila-an_ ,” he whispered and it was her turn to be surprised. “But I can’t do it. I can’t kill the one I _love_.”

The pain was obvious. A long-fought denial was clear in his words. She felt his hands soften then slide lower to hold her forearms. His strength would be enough to bruise a normal man. But then she wasn’t a normal man. She was a woman, his goddess…a beloved he admits he worshiped now, and anywhere.

“Yill…I…”

Nothing more left to be said. Sweeping her into his arms, he returned the kiss she first gave him, and for the first time in a year, everything seemed the way it should be, even as anarchy continued its course outside…

**#**

She slumbered in bed amidst all the ruffled sheets while he dressed, watching her face contort every now and then, grimacing at dreams perhaps Yill may never know about. All he knew was _they happened_ , the memory of tonight something he will never forget.

She was _his_ now, and he swore never to let go of her, of this new-found clarity in his life. He had wanted someone for the first time…and he had gotten her satisfyingly enough.

But then there was work to be done. He had after all failed to finish his assignment. The candle in _Kandila-an_ he would have to dedicate to someone else. Not Psalterine though, no.

* * *

 

Something exploded from somewhere in the house.

The mythical assassin stood between it and the bed where _she_ was still very much asleep. The _gang_ had caught up to them. They knew of his failure and had been entirely unimpressed with his refusal to fulfill what he had been hired to do. But they were actually more afraid.

“Drop your sword assassin,” the man who appeared to be the leader of the dark-masked throng ordered Yill, training what was apparently the latest and most powerful weapon - among other armaments - at him.

They had him, _them_ , surrounded, but then this was something an heir of a Mythical Society neither feared nor considered as entirely threatening. If there was anything, _they_ were the ones in danger.

His hand tightened around the handle of his drawn _Obfuscare_. He just felt like smiling in amusement.

“Tell me,” said the assassin. “The heads sent you here because they _knew_ what will happen now, don’t they?”

And his eyes were as the glinting of his blade. They were tinged with red in anticipation of blood…

* * *

 

The contract forged with the Gothvrieds had its very few yet d e f i n i t e rules, the foremost of which describes the consequence clients need to pay in the off-chance that an assassination failed, which has never really happened up until Yill met Psalterine. He’s told the heads before, and they were so confident that he could fulfill the task but had apparently not.

_'A taper is lit in the Palace’s Kandila-an as a sign of a life taken._

_'But in the case the contract is not accomplished, the assassin dying in the middle of the mission or has had a change of heart, the taper will be  dedicated to the client._

_'Which means the client dies in the stead of the target…'_


End file.
